by Joan Smith
When she returned home, the butler told her Lord Harwell had been to call. He did not say whether he would return. It was one more petty annoyance to add to the unpleasant day, with everything up in the air. It would have helped relieve the tension to talk it over with Harry after all. Dick glowered when she met him in the hall. Miss Rafferty’s eyes were red when Rosalind went to the schoolroom to see how Sukey was going on.
“Miss Rafferty has got a cinder in her eye,” Sukey explained. “Can I go out and play now, Roz? I’ve done a whole page of letters. This is an a,” she said, proudly displaying her handiwork. “And this is a b. It sounds like boy and bag and bug. I’m learning to read!”
“That’s wonderful, Sukey. Yes, why don’t you go out and ride your pony for a while. It’s a lovely day.” She knew the groom would see Sukey was accompanied.
* * * *
The Lovelaces’ socializing had increasingly centered around the Fortescues since Dick’s engagement. Regular dinner parties with their old friends were less frequent. Annabelle was bored by their provincial neighbors. With the new coolness between the young couple, Rosalind and Dick had the evening to themselves. Harwell did not call.
She thought Sylvester might send her a note, but the morning brought no letter with the familiar writing. Annabelle did not call, nor did she receive calls from either of the Lovelaces, but when Rosalind drove into Croydon from sheer boredom to call on an old friend of the family, she heard plenty about the coming party. It seemed the shops and High Street were abuzz with it.
The London coach had delivered dozens of large parcels for Miss Fortescue, which were duly picked up by footmen and carried to the gaudy mansion. Every retired and unemployed servant in town was pressed into temporary service in preparation for the event.
“They will be serving turtle soup!” Miss Vickers informed Rosalind, when they sat to have tea. This was a great innovation for local society, requiring as it did a live turtle. “Miss Spender has spent every afternoon at their house making a new gown for Mrs. Fortescue. She bought the ecru taffeta and matching lace at Fulton’s. Miss Fortescue had her gown made in London!” she announced, as if London were Paris, or the Far East. “She has sworn her dresser to secrecy, as if they were planning to overthrow the king, so we have not heard what the gown is like, but the servants say she has had a pair of dancing slippers dyed Olympian blue.”
This suggested not only that the secret gown was blue, but that there was to be dancing. This had been in doubt as the local musicians had not been hired. It seemed that London was to supply not only the gown but the music.
Rosalind did not share these nuggets with Dick. Any mention of Annabelle sent him into a fit of the blue devils. She would have liked to discuss the coming party with someone, but it seemed cruel to tantalize Miss Rafferty when she had found the fortitude to send in her refusal to the grandest party the parish had ever seen.
Rosalind did not plan to put herself to the bother and expense of a new gown, nor would it have been possible if she had. Every modiste in town was working day and night to outfit the privileged group who had received an invitation.
With no new gown to distinguish her, she was toying with the notion of sporting a turban, concocted from a leftover length of the rose silk that had been used for her new gown. Turbans looked rather modish on older ladies like herself. But then she would look like Sylvester’s mama or maiden aunt. Why didn’t he write?
The next morning the long-awaited letter finally arrived. It was written in a lively style, lengthy and full of plans for her remove to London. Any vague doubts and worries about Sylvester’s character and intentions vanished as she read it. The flat was ready for occupancy. The sooner she could come, the better. He was most eager to show her off.
He had drawn a floor plan of the apartment where she was to live and a map of the surrounding facilities: shops, circulating libraries, churches, and so on. He had marked the homes of various friends and business associates with an X and mentioned which of them were sociable. Sir George Kingsley, it seemed, gave grand parties. A Miss Langtry was marked with a notation that she would show Rosalind around the shops, modistes, coiffeurs, etc. That was well done of him. Imagination painted a rosy future of gadding about London with the literary set. The tone of the letter left no doubt that he considered himself as her special friend, if not yet her lover.
All her early enthusiasm for the plan was reactivated. It would do her the world of good to get away. She could hardly wait.
What he had not included was the rather important matter of the flat’s price. There were two paragraphs discussing her new set of poems, with voluminous suggestions as to classical references. He said he looked forward to seeing her on Saturday but did not actually say he would call. Did he mean he would see her at Annabelle’s party? Not a word regarding his having squired Annabelle about London. It obviously meant nothing to him. He had only done it from gratitude for Fortescue’s contribution to Camena.
Altogether it was a most satisfying missive and was signed, “with warmest regards, Sylvester.” A postscript crowded onto the bottom of the page mentioned he hoped she was not planning to bring Sukey, as London was no place for a child. She was glad she hadn’t said anything to Dick about taking Sukey with her. Really Sukey would be better off at home.
Rosalind carried the letter in her pocket and was perusing it again that afternoon in the garden when Lord Harwell came to call. He spotted her on his way from the stable to the house. She stuffed it back into her pocket and arranged a smile to greet him.
“Not a word about the mountain coming to Muhammad, sir!” she said saucily. “I called on you the other day, and you were out.”
“So John Groom told me. I wonder we didn’t meet on the road. I was here, calling on you.” Something in her attitude called to mind that earlier meeting, when he had just returned from London. The setting was similar, with the garden all around. Her face had the same glow. On that other occasion, it was the publication of her poems that excited her, but that thrill had worn off by now. Harwell had a sinking sensation it was Sylvester who accounted for this new excitement.
“I rode through the fields, which would account for it,” she said. “You have come to learn the outcome of Dick’s visit to Croydon. I fear nothing has been settled.”
“I already know that. Next to the party, it is the most discussed on dit in Croydon.”
“But we haven’t told anyone!”
“I wonder who did,” he asked, and gave a disparaging shake of his head. This was no real mystery. The only other person who knew was Annabelle herself. “Poor Miss Rafferty features as the villainess of the piece. Dick is not fighting off her advances as he ought. A most unlikely ‘other woman.’ There will be fur flying before the night is over.”
“It will not be Miss Rafferty’s fur. She has sent in her refusal.”
“A wise precaution, though it is a pity she must miss the do. It is being spoken of, even in London.”
“Have you been to London?” she asked, surprised.
“Yes, I had the estate agent show me over Lord Dunston’s new block of flats while I was there. A concerned neighbor’s privilege. They are very handsome. Everything done up in the first style.”
“And the location very convenient. Sylvester enclosed a map in his letter.”
His eyes moved unconsciously to her pocket. “Is that what you were perusing so intently when I arrived?”
“I was glancing at it, yes. The flat seems ideal. I am most eager to be off. Spread my wings and fly away.”
When Harwell saw the pleasure glowing in her eyes, he felt a profound sense of loss. He knew it was not a flat that put that flush on her cheeks. She was in love with the popinjay, as surely as he was in love with her. How had he not realized it years ago? The right woman was here, under his nose, all the time he had been racketing around, looking for love. He had been blinded by their friendship, but to have a lover and friend in one was the best love of all.
“
About the flat, much depends on one’s neighbors, of course,” he said. And some of those flats had been let to dashers he would not care to see Rosalind associate with.
“I hardly think lowlifes will be able to afford such finery.”
“Nor starving artists either. That was the sort of neighborhood he mentioned, was it not?”
“Other writing friends of his live nearby. It is a sort of cultural oasis. The group is close. They go about to lectures and parties and so on together. The offices of Camena are only a block or two away as well.”
“If you find it does not suit, you will remember my offer to stay at my house. Until you find something you like better at least. I told my housekeeper she was to make you welcome if you chose to go there.”
“That was—thoughtful of you,” she said. As far as Rosalind was concerned, it was also unnecessary. In fact, it was bordering on the intrusive. “But I hardly think Lord Sylvester would recommend rooms that were unsuitable in any way. He knows me pretty well. He knows what would suit me.”
“As Annabelle has given them her seal of approval, we must assume they do not lack for finery.”
Rosalind’s eyes glittered dangerously. Annabelle had approved them! Sylvester had not mentioned that! No doubt the hussy had nagged him into it.
“How soon will you be leaving?” he asked.
“Eager to be rid of me?” she snipped. Her anger was with Annabelle, but it was Harwell who was there to take the brunt of it.
“Not at all. My intention was to give a dinner party before your departure, to thank you for the many favors you’ve done me over the years.”
She was sorry for her little outburst. “You don’t have to do that, Harry.”
“You mustn’t expect anything on the scale of Annabelle’s extravaganza.”
“What, no turtle soup?” she asked with a moue.
He found it odd that she should adopt this coquettish attitude now, when she had chosen Sylvester. If she had behaved like this any time over the past decade, he would have realized he loved her. “That would require a week’s advance notice. When will you be leaving?”
“As soon as possible. Sylvester is very eager. And so am I. To get on with our work, I mean,” she added, blushing. “It would be nice if you could have the dinner party while he is here. You don’t really know him very well, Harry. I would like you two to get to know one another better.”
This confirmed that she was serious about the demmed fop, but at least he hadn’t offered yet, or she would not have bothered with that prevarication about getting on with their work.
“I know him as well as I want to, but if it would please you, then let us make it the day after Annabelle’s party. Should I invite her as well?”
After a frowning pause, she said, “That will depend on what she says to Dick tomorrow evening at her party. Perhaps we should wait and see. She is hoping for an offer from Sylvester, but I fear she hopes in vain.”
“You think that is what she has in mind?”
“Why else did she set that date as the time she would give Dick her answer? She is very sly, but I fear she is out in her reckoning if she thinks to buy Lord Sylvester with a thousand pounds.”
“Her dowry is considerably more than that, I think?”
“How you harp on money! Sylvester is a poet. Money is not that important to him—except to keep Camena afloat, I mean.”
Harwell didn’t shake his head, as he wanted to. He just looked and listened, with a great weight pressing on his heart. As her talk was all of Sylvester and Camena and London, he soon said, “I have to be going now. I have an appointment at the Abbey,” and left.
Rosalind remained in the garden, musing over her letter.
Chapter Eighteen
The major impediment to Rosalind’s happiness on the day of the party was that when Sylvester failed to offer for Annabelle, as, of course, he would, then Annabelle would not jilt Dick. Rosalind mentioned her fear to Dick, who frowned in confusion.
“Why wouldn’t he offer for her? She has bushels of blunt. He is staying at her papa’s house. The Fortescues went with him to London. It’s clear as a pikestaff she’s nabbed him.”
“I rather think Lord Sylvester is interested in me, Dick,” she explained.
“You! Surely you jest. You wouldn’t marry that young Jack Dandy.”
“I might, if he offered.”
“Good God! All that poetry has rotted your mind. As if leaving Apple Hill for London weren’t bad enough, now you speak of marrying Sylvester Staunton. I would as lief see you marry Jack Ketch.”
“I’m sorry you don’t approve. In fact, I have not decided to have him. The point is, I don’t think for a moment Sylvester is going to offer for Annabelle.”
“Then we’ll have to get someone else to do it. By Jove! Harry! He’ll do.”
“Harry!” she gasped. “Are you mad? He’d never marry her. She is the last person he’d marry.”
“High time the old benedict settled down. And she has the blunt, remember. It must cost Harry a fortune to run the Abbey.”
Rosalind felt a pronounced revulsion for this match. To have Miss Fortescue lording over the neighborhood as milady, littering the Abbey with her notions of finery—the thought was obscene.
“Even if he didn’t actually offer, he could make up to her, let on he was interested,” Dick said, as he recalled that Harry had never seemed very fond of Annabelle. “I’ll suggest it to him. She’ll go along with it. Mad for a title.”
“No! She might manage to nab him!”
“What’s that to us? You’ll be in London. I’ll be here with Sukey—and Miss Rafferty.” He could not quite control the little smile that twitched at his lips.
“I would sooner see her marry Sylvester than Harry,” Rosalind said, and strode angrily from the room with her heart banging like a hammer on an anvil. The very idea!
She had always known Harry would marry one day. Probably one day soon, as he was edging into his thirties. Every June 4 when he returned from the Season, she braced herself to hear he was engaged to some fine lord’s well-dowered daughter who would make a suitable mistress for the Abbey. That would be fitting, indeed inevitable. But Annabelle Fortescue! He would be better off with herself. At least she was a real lady, not some jumped-up solicitor’s daughter who was barely fit to marry Dick.
She went up to her bedchamber, slumped onto the edge of her bed, and sat repining. This summer, which had begun in such a blaze of glory, was rapidly turning into one of the worst since the year her mama had died and she had had to delay her wedding to Lyle Standish.
Nothing was working out as she had hoped. It seemed the only well-matched pair in the parish were Dick and Sylvia Rafferty, and even they could not get on with their romance. She thought of Sylvester, not in the light of the precious letter in her pocket but as Dick saw him. Sylvester was too young for her, too superficial, too dandified. Harry hadn’t a good word to say for him either. If she were perfectly honest with herself, she would admit she didn’t care so much for him as for the entree to the literary world she had long coveted.
Compared to Harry, he was a mere stripling. Her thoughts were easily diverted to Harry. She saw him again in her mind’s eye, walking hand in hand with Sukey, carrying Snow Drop. He would not be allowed to run tame at Apple Hill if Annabelle nabbed him. Her ladyship would see to that! Harry had been a part of her life for as long as she could remember. He was always there, laughing, joking, cadging favors, and granting them, too, when she and Dick needed a wiser head to advise them. Oh, why couldn’t things remain as they had been?
She blinked back the tears that pricked the back of her eyes and went to her toilet table to contrive a coiffure for the party. She would not wear the turban after all. She’d look like Sylvester’s mama.
At six-thirty she and Dick went to say good night to Sukey, who always liked to see them arrayed in their finery when they were going out. Rosalind had drawn her hair into a nest of curls on top of her head and wore
again her rose gown. Miss Rafferty, looking like Cinderella deprived of the ball, sat with Sukey reading her a story.
“You look very nice, Miss Lovelace,” she said. “I hope you have a good time.” Then with a shy glance at Dick, “And you too, Mr. Lovelace.”
Dick’s lips clenched into a grimace. “Thank you, Miss Rafferty. I’m sorry you aren’t coming with us. Demmed foolishness.”
The trip to Croydon was made in near silence. They were as dispirited as if they were in a tumbrel on their way to the guillotine. Their spirits revived somewhat when they reached Fortescue’s mansion. The flaming torches, the row of scarlet-clad footmen, and the canopy erected over the doorway were enough to bring a smile to Rosalind’s lips. Really, it was too ridiculous! How Harry would stare!
Annabelle’s gown of Olympian blue was all one could imagine and more in the way of ribbons, lace, ruchings, and silk flowers. The daring cut revealed her white shoulders, but one’s eyes were more likely to be drawn to the sapphires around her neck. Sylvester sat beside her like a tame puppy. His supercilious manner had left him entirely. Annabelle greeted the Lovelaces with a chilly smile.
“How nice you look, Rosalind. I am becoming fond of that gown,” she said, with a dismissing glance at the familiar gown. She merely nodded to Dick, before turning to address some comment to Sylvester. Sylvester smiled uneasily at Rosalind and murmured his greeting. The Lovelaces hurried on to speak to other guests and were soon sharing exclamations of astonishment at the canopy and conjecture as to the turtle soup to come. Miss Vickers’s maid had got a look at the live creature and thought it looked very old and tough for eating.
Lord Harwell was one of the last to arrive. Rosalind had been waiting for him, and when she saw him, she gazed a long moment. How fine he looked compared to every other man in the room. His shirt points were not so high as some, his diamond not half the size of Fortescue’s, but he had an air of dignity and of casual, unstudied charm that set him apart from the common herd.